


You and I walk the same road

by akingdomofunicorns



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingdomofunicorns/pseuds/akingdomofunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is rather sweet, how they’ve learnt to love each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and I walk the same road

Arya’s skin is rough and salty under his lips; she smells of flesh and grass and warmth, unlike the other ladies at court, who don themselves in rosewater and lavander and silks. He doesn’t mind that sometimes she smells faintly of horse, that she comes to him all dirty from playing in the mud with Rickon. She’s sweeter than he’s ever seen her, all but trying to get her lost childhood back. But she’s no lady, and though somehow she’s learnt to be gentle, she’s still wilful.

She’s the one who takes care of Rickon, which surprises everyone, from Princess Sansa to the butcher to Gendry himself. Everyone thought it would be Her Highness herself who would be most inclined to try and soften her brother’s wild manners, but Arya says her sister is scared of Rickon, and he’s not surprised: it is known Princess Sansa has plenty of reasons to be afraid and mistrustful of everyone, specially men. The princess was not made for harshness, she was not made for hatred, Arya always says, she’s soft and sweet, but she became tougher and stronger in adversity, learning to survive, just as Arya did. He admires her for that, but it’s not as if she needs to hear it from his mouth to know she’s done good, she’s done great.

Arya stays with Rickon all morning, helping with his lessons as best she can, calming him, making him see he can’t bite anyone for no reason, unless someone’s trying to hurt one of them, specially Sansa and Bran. After midday, she takes him to the Godswood, sometimes letting Bran or Gendry tag along, even Sansa from time to time, Osha or Meera Reed, who everyone knows is to be Queen in the North once King Bran turns four and ten.

He doesn’t mind not seeing her for most of the day; he’s got work to do, down at the smithy, where it’s hot and dirty, but now that they don’t have to hide, he feels better, happier, he feels somehow free. Everyone knows the King’s sister lies with the bastard blacksmith, but no one has the energy to care, not anymore. Arya’s killed men and led soldiers to war, she’s pardoned and condemned, beheaded traitors and deserters, knighted brave men that had fought for her House. They love her something fierce, and respect her even more, as much as they fear her; she’s a Stark through and through, they say, though the ones who were here from the beginning, before the war, agree that there’s a lot of Tully in her, not in looks, but she’s very much like the late Lady Stark, mixed with Lady Lyanna’s harsh beauty and wilful ways. He doesn’t know, all he’s known is Lady Stoneheart, and though Arya was always hungry for vengance, her family always came first.

They’re not married, and they probably won’t get married either unless he asks, but he doesn’t want to scare her. It’s not as if he needs to marry her, he knows she loves him, she’s told him before, but it would be so nice to call her his wife, maybe even get her with child... It would be really nice to see Arya swollen and round, all pink and pale, dark hair shinier, grey eyes softer and excited. It would be rather lovely, to get to feel a baby kick against his hand, hold him in his arms, sing him to sleep. But Arya is the one who sets the pace of their relationship, the one who gets to decide what goes on with her body, and he has to be by her side in whatever she chooses, because he loves her.

Arya comes to him before dinner, all neat and proper, wearing a dress of grey wool and a cloak of brown furs; the dresses Princess Sansa sometimes makes her wear fit her nicely, never something fancy, but practical and simple, like most northern women. He knows years ago the Princess had liked elaborated southron dresses of myrish lace and watery silks, but Gendry’s always seen her in thick dresses, blues and greys, purples, dark greens, black, white...

“Come on, stupid,” Arya whispers in his ear, “I’m hungry.”

She walks them to her solar, where there are some fat chicken legs waiting for them on the table, boiled beets and cabbage and ripe peaches from the south, a gift from some lord or other, surely. They always dine together, no matter what.

“I’ve spent the afternoon sewing with Sansa and it has been a fruitful afternoon, I think. She’s vowed to take no husband, ever, which is something I’d never thought I hear my sister say, but she has.”

“That is very brave of her,” he dares say, because though the Princess has nothing against him loving Arya, he’s convinced she doesn’t agree of Arya loving him back.

“Yes, indeed, it is. But I think she has taken a lover, and not _any_ lover, but Bran’s Lord Commander.” He chokes on his beets, making Arya throw her head back and laugh. “See, I told you,” she says after composing herself, “I don’t think she has a problem with us. Now, moving onto other things, I’ll let you know that Rickon apologised to Sansa for scaring her and he gave her a flower. And there’s something else we need to discuss.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, perfectly fine. But Sansa made me realize that I’ve never asked you what you wanted, I just sort of asumed that you where fine and happy, but you want a family, don’t you?”

“I _am_ happy, Arya.”

“And if I were to tell you that I don’t want children?”

“I’d love you all the same,” he tells her, because it’s the truth.

“And what if I...”

“Don’t, Arya,” he says, taking her hand in his, “you have no need to be doubtful: I love you, whether you want children or not.”

Arya smiles and sets her dinner aside to climb on his lap. She’s tiny, short and thin, all muscle and bones; she’s hard and tough, and sharp, too, like a blade, but her lips are soft and sweet, unlike the rest of her; sweet and wet and warm, demanding.

“Good,” she says, her teeth dragging at the skin of his neck, “because moon tea tastes awful and foul and I’ve made my mind that you won’t be sleeping much, tonight. I am in the mood for some playing.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“The best of plans.”

It is rather sweet, how they’ve learnt to love each other. 


End file.
